Читать книгу Two Weeks in the Magnate's Bed - Nicola Marsh - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

AS THE taxi screeched to a halt, Lana Walker flung open the door and scrambled for her bags.

‘Hey, slow down. You haven’t missed the boat.’

The deep groove in the driver’s caterpillar mono-brow had been honed with years of practice if his glare was any indication.

The way she saw it, she might have arrived on time to board the Ocean Queen, but she’d missed the boat metaphorically in every other way that counted—which was exactly why she was taking this trip.

She rummaged for the fare and darted a curious glance at the ship, spotting several officers in white uniforms on deck.

Very impressive—and the ship wasn’t half bad either.

A shadow loomed over the open passenger door as the driver held out his hand. ‘Some people have all the luck. How about my fare, lady?’

Grouch. She resisted the urge to poke out her tongue as she handed him the money, picked up her luggage and headed for the escalators.

What would he know about luck? She’d worked hard for what she had—damn hard: five years as curator at Melbourne Museum, and three years as head curator at Sydney Museum had been amazing, stimulating and stressful.

Sure, she had a stellar reputation in the industry, and a gorgeous apartment in the beachside suburb of Coogee, but that was about it.

She didn’t have a life.

No time out, no socialising, no fun.

Over the next two weeks she planned to change all that.

Though luck had played a part in this trip; if she hadn’t won the cruise she wouldn’t have taken a holiday, sad workaholic that she was.

As thoughts of work crowded her head, namely how she’d recently missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime courtesy of her crippling shyness, she stumbled at the top of the escalator and pitched forward, silently cursing the three-inch heels her shoe-crazy cousin Beth had loaned her for the trip.

So much for the hope that the illusion of height would give her extra poise. It would be difficult to feign elegance when she landed on her butt.

Grabbing wildly at anything more stable than air, she exhaled on a relieved sigh as a strong pair of arms shot out, holding her in a vice-like grip.

‘Whoa. These things are lethal if you don’t concentrate. Too busy daydreaming about the Love Boat, huh?’ The smooth voice, with more than a hint of amusement in its husky depths, sent an unexpected shiver down her spine as she looked up into her rescuer’s face.

Wow.

Seeing good-looking guys on a daily basis was a perk of her job. The museum was a haven for sexily scruffy archaeological students, attractive teachers, even the odd university professor with a distinguished Sean Connery thing going on.

Yet this guy who now pinned her with arms displaying a great set of biceps was so much more than that. Striking was more appropriate. Even sex-on-legs, as brazen Beth would say.

Hypnotic eyes, a deep, cobalt blue, were fringed with long dark lashes any woman would have envied, and those baby blues were pinned on her, a teasing glint in their rich depths.

She inhaled sharply, unprepared for an intoxicating fresh citrus scent that left her head spinning—and not just from her near-fall.

As for his lips, curving with the hint of a smile, for the first time in her reclusive life she understood the label ‘kissable’.

All too aware she was staring—gawking, more like it—she dropped her gaze. Only to be confronted by an equally intriguing sight: a broad expanse of tanned chest where the two top buttons of his shirt were undone.

Hotter than Indiana Jones, leapt to mind.

She had a major thing for Indiana—always had—and, lucky her, Indiana’s double was holding on to her as if his life depended on it.

She’d wanted to gain confidence, step outside her comfort zone, experience new things on this cruise. To broaden her outlook to the extent she was never passed over for a work opportunity again. She had been thinking along the lines of dance lessons, lectures on exotic destinations, shore excursions, that sort of thing.

However, being held by this guy had her mind sailing down channels she’d never usually contemplate. Not a bad thing entirely, if taking this holiday had already affected her mindset. Maybe shy, geeky Lana—as she’d once overheard some colleagues call her—was already slipping into vacation mode.

Her heart thumping, whether in fear of her strangely errant thoughts or excitement at what they might urge her to do, she eased out of his grip.

He grinned and, typically, he had a sexy smile to match the rest of him. ‘So, do I pass inspection?’

Great. He knew she’d been checking him out. Her skill at covert observation was on a par with her wardrobe: shabby at best.

‘What makes you think I was inspecting anything? You were holding me so tight I had nowhere to move, let alone look.’

‘Feisty. I like that.’ His eyes gleamed, and the corners of his too-tempting-for-comfort mouth twitched in amusement.

Heat suffused her cheeks as she struggled to come up with a comeback. She hated how she always thought of a great retort ten minutes too late.

How was it she could answer any student’s query in a second, but right now her brain—a whiz at cataloguing priceless artefacts, leading tour groups and calculating storage data—was totally befuddled?

‘Thanks for breaking my fall.’

As replies went, it was pretty lame. Pathetic, in fact; it looked as if her comeback skills had sunk to the same level as her flirting expertise: below average bordering on non-existent.

More embarrassed than she cared to admit, she managed a tight smile, picked up her luggage and turned away, striding towards the ship though her knees wobbled like just-set jelly.

‘Watch your step!’ he called after her, his voice shaking with laughter.

She stiffened, but didn’t break stride, determined not to look back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Besides, she could feel his stare boring holes into her back.

Her skin prickled at the recollection of those incredibly blue eyes twinkling at her, laughing at her, and she shook her head in disgust. She was such a novice at this.

‘Live a little, cuz. Let your hair down. Go crazy,’ Beth had encouraged her. ‘You’ve got two weeks to cut loose, to be someone you wouldn’t dream of being on land. Make the most of it.’

Great advice, and it had sounded easy coming from her bubbly, confident cousin, who bounced through life with a perpetual smile on her face. And Beth sure knew what she was talking about, considering her positive attitude had landed her Aidan Voss, the dreamiest husband on the planet.

As for Beth’s other advice—‘dust off the cobwebs, get laid’—Lana blushed just thinking about it.

It was precisely three years, two months and five days since she’d last had sex. Not that she was counting or anything. Besides, she’d have to date to have sex—would have to get emotionally involved with the guy to contemplate it—and she didn’t trust her emotions any more; not after what Jax the Jackass had done.

She tucked her old holdall under her arm tighter and headed for the gangway. Beth was right. While her professional life shone, her social life sucked. She had no confidence, no social skills, and no hope of being chosen for the museum’s next overseas jaunt unless she learned to be more assertive, more outgoing, more everything.

Maybe this cruise would be just what a conservative curator needed?

Zac watched the petite brunette cut a path through the crowd, confused and intrigued.

Most of the holidaymakers he met were dressed to kill, and wearing enough make-up to sink a ship—no pun intended—yet she wore a simple navy suit bordering on severe, and barely a slick of lipgloss. And yet she had managed to capture his attention anyway.

He’d reached out to her in an instinctive reaction, but once she was in his arms his synapses had short-circuited and he’d found himself wanting to hold on way longer than necessary.

What was with that?

He’d lost any tender regard towards the fairer sex around the time Magda had done her chameleon act, and he hadn’t let a woman get close enough to sink her talons in since.

Unwittingly, his gaze was drawn to the diminutive figure striding towards the ship, head up, shoulders squared, as if ready for battle. No simple walking for her. No, sirree. She had to sway her hips in a natural, tantalising rhythm in sync with her legs.

Running a hand across his eyes didn’t help his quest to wipe her imprint from his retinas. Her sexy gait was replaced by an instant image of feline hazel eyes and a full, pouting mouth. Lord, that mouth. He could fantasise about it for ever. As for that innocent schoolgirl-channelling-schoolmarm expression she had down pat—he’d never seen anything like it.

When she’d stared at him with those striking burnt caramel eyes she’d appeared wide-eyed and ingenuous one second, and ready to give him a severe scolding the next.

Interesting. Very interesting. But he didn’t have the time or the inclination to follow up on the first woman to pique his interest in a long time.

He had more important things on his mind—like doing a damn good job the next two weeks before he moved on to the next stage of his life. His uncle wanted him here. They’d noticed a pattern to the series of accidents that had plagued their cruise fleet, and the pattern suggested that the Ocean Queen was the next target. He planned for it to be the last.

After unpacking, Lana made her way to the promenade deck and wandered away from the crowds along the railings, finding a deserted spot with a clear view of the hustle and bustle below.

Circular Quay buzzed with activity, and people were waving as the ship pulled away from its berth, snapping the colourful streamers that bound it to shore. She had a great view from her vantage point: the Sydney Harbour Bridge on her left and the Opera House on her right as the ship sailed up the harbour. Both landmarks were imposing in the fading light.

The sound of low voices from somewhere on the deck above had her craning her head. If she had a great view from here, theirs must be amazing.

‘Looks like loads of single women down there. Half are here for flings; the other half hope to find a husband. It’s the same every cruise.’

‘Your job is to pamper those women, not judge them.’

‘Easy for you to say, buddy. If they see an unattached guy they’re like piranhas circling their next meal.’

Despite her intentions to ignore the conversation, this harsh judgment captured Lana’s attention, and realisation dawned as she looked up. Standing above her, silhouetted against the bridge, stood the stranger who’d saved her from falling earlier.

He wore a crisp white uniform that accentuated his tan—a larger than life Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman—and she swallowed, disconcerted by how she’d compared him to two of her favourite movie stars in under an hour.

Deep furrows marred his brow as his gaze swept the crowd, and she shrank back, hoping she was hidden. She didn’t want to be scrutinised by that disconcerting stare—not when she’d been eavesdropping, albeit unintentionally.

Mr Nautical’s generalisations about women had her bristling enough to barge up there and give him a verbal spray, but if she had the guts to do that she’d be winging her way to Egypt right now, as the museum’s spokesperson, not cowering under a deck hoping she wouldn’t be spotted.

He was entitled to his opinion, and she to hers. And right now, as she darted a quick glance overhead, taking in those broad shoulders, deep blue eyes and the mop of unruly dark curls, her opinion screamed Neanderthal.

The band starting up drowned out the rest of his conversation, and she stood still for several minutes, waiting for the men above to move so she could make her escape without being seen. After a few extra minutes of shuffling her feet to kill time, she sidled along the deck, taking a few steps back towards an open door.

‘Watch out!’

The owner of the low voice stood so close his warm breath caressed her ear, and she jumped and whirled around, her heart pounding as she stared into those familiar indigo eyes barely inches from her face.

‘You startled me.’ She glared, desperately trying to hide her embarrassment at being caught eavesdropping.

‘Sorry. Maybe if you watched where you were going we’d stop bumping into each other like this? By the way—Zac McCoy.’

He stuck out his hand, seemingly unaware she’d heard every word of his damning conversation. She’d wanted to keep it that way, so couldn’t be as rude as her first instinct prompted her to be.

‘Lana Walker.’

She placed her hand in his, unprepared for the jolt that shot up her arm as his fingers closed over hers. She yanked back, flustered by the residual tingle buzzing from her fingertips to her shoulder.

His eyes widened as he stared down at her hand. Great. Now he thought she was bad-mannered as well as clumsy. Way to go with the first impressions. Not that she had any intention of impressing him after what she’d just heard—and as if she’d even contemplate impressing him if she hadn’t, she thought derisively. Old clothes, minimal makeup and boring brown hair weren’t exactly designed to impress any guy, let alone someone in Mr Tall, Dark and Nautical’s league.

‘I need to finish unpacking, so if you’ll excuse me?’

As she pushed past him her bare arm brushed his. The strange buzzing was back with a vengeance, spreading upwards and outwards and confusing the heck out of her. She had no idea why her body was behaving like this.

Okay, so that was a lie. Jax the Jackass might have been her only boyfriend, the only guy she’d ever slept with, but once he’d dumped her and she’d fled to Sydney she’d had two less than memorable dates with co-workers. She still recognized that buzz.

Hormones. Her reaction to sailor boy had to be purely physical—no doubt intensified due to the fact she hadn’t been this close to a guy in over three years.

‘I’ll leave you to it. Nice meeting you.’

She mumbled a non-committal answer and sent him a half-hearted wave, glancing over her shoulder as he walked away, her curious gaze lingering on parts it had no right scoping out.

She had a thing for guys in uniform. Always had. Starting way back, when a young sailor had given her a flower after she’d dropped an ice cream cone and cried. A clumsy five-year-old who’d never forgotten her first crush. Her mum’s warning at the time, to steer clear of men like that, hadn’t meant much, considering she hadn’t known what ‘that’ meant back then.

Now, seeing the white cotton outlining Zac McCoy’s butt as he strode away, she knew exactly what that was, and it sent her scurrying for her cabin.

Banishing the encounter from her thoughts, she showered and dressed for dinner. Beth had crammed her case with designer dresses and shoes, but Lana would never have the self-confidence to wear half the sexy stuff her cousin did, so she settled for her one good dress: a plain black coat dress, cinched at the waist, set off with her cousin’s sparkly jet Manolos.

Beth had pestered Lana to allow a complete makeover, but the thought of a radical haircut and new wardrobe was way too intimidating for a girl who equated the latest fashion with the occasional update of her tortoiseshell spectacle frames.

She’d settled for a sedate trim to her blah-brown hair and contacts. Beth had settled for giving her enough shoe castoffs to make the Sex and the City girls sit up and take notice.

As for the rest of Beth’s advice on how to boost her self-confidence? She’d take it one step at a time in these damn uncomfortable shoes.

She entered the Coral Dining Room and barely had time to notice the giant chandelier, the string quartet and the silver service place settings before the maître d’ whisked her to a table where two seats remained vacant.

Sliding into one of them, she let the other occupants introduce themselves—a couple in their forties and two other women—hoping they wouldn’t expect her to make small talk. She was lousy in social situations like this, preferring to sit and listen than participate in idle chit-chat.

She listened to their friendly banter while perusing the extensive menu. As the empty chair on her right was drawn back, her skin prickled disturbingly. A sensation she associated with the hives she’d been unfortunate enough to bear several times when a strawberry came within a whiff of her.

However, this prickle had nothing to do with fruit. This time something far more dangerous to her health—well, to her peace of mind—caused her skin to flush and tingle.

‘Hi, everyone. I’m Zac McCoy, Public Relations Manager. I’m delighted you’ll be joining me for meals at my table. On behalf of the ship’s company, the Captain and the crew, we hope you enjoy your cruise.’

Fate liked to play jokes on her. Maybe she should take out a lottery ticket and be done with it.

Resisting the urge to surreptitiously scratch the flushed skin behind her ears, she tried to ignore her erratic pulse which had shifted into overdrive the minute he sat down. She toyed with the cutlery, pleated her napkin, and successfully avoided looking at him until the table introductions reached her.

‘How are you, Lana?’

He flashed that killer smile, blue eyes glinting with amusement.

‘Fine, thanks.’

That’s it. Slay him with scintillating conversation. For a professional who gave presentations weekly—as painful as it was, speaking in front of her peers—she was doing a marvellous job appearing to be a brainless bimbo.

While the voluptuous blonde on his right distracted him, she couldn’t resist sneaking a peek. Smooth, suave and sexy. He was exactly the type of guy any sane woman would stay away from: a glib, good-looking charmer, with the body of Adonis and a face designed to turn heads. Way out of her league.

As dinner proceeded she remained silent, toying with her food, faking polite smiles. She’d never been a flirt, like Beth, and sitting next to a guy like Zac had her tongue-tied. Probably for the best, as she doubted he’d be interested in the latest marsupial display in the Australian Gallery, or in hearing her expound the virtues of digital cataloguing. Though her reticence was barely noticed as he maintained a steady flow of conversation, captivating everyone at the table.

During dessert—a light chocolate soufflé that melted in her mouth—he turned towards her.

‘You’re awfully quiet. Maybe we should get to know each other better?’

His bold stare scanned her face, focusing briefly on her mouth before returning to her eyes, and admiration tinged with something more—something that made her heart go pitter-patter—glittered in those blue depths.

‘Maybe. Though I should warn you. I’m single, and probably hungrier than a piranha.’

His smile slipped as he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin, those vivid eyes never leaving hers for a second. She blinked to break the hypnotic contact.

‘You overheard me earlier?’

‘Yeah, and your opinion of women on cruises sucks.’

She silently applauded her bravado—fuelled by indignation—even while cringing at her outburst. Antagonising him wouldn’t be conducive to remaining unnoticed, which was what she’d hoped for if she had to sit next to him every night for the next two weeks.

His eyes deepened to midnight, dark and challenging, as he leaned towards her.

‘Care to change my mind?’

‘And disillusion you because I’m not the man-hunter you think I am?’ She eased back, needing some distance between them before she leaned into him and lapped up some of that delicious citrusy-sea-air scent he exuded. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

‘Oh, I think it could be fun,’ he said.

His gaze dipped to her mouth again, lingered before sweeping back to her eyes. and she flicked her tongue out to moisten her lips, which tingled as if he’d physically touched her.

‘And seeing as you think I’m a judgmental idiot, you would take a lot of convincing.’ His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Which could equate to a lot of fun.’

‘I didn’t say you were an idiot.’

He chuckled—a rich, deep sound which washed over her in a warm wave. ‘You didn’t have to. You’ve got very expressive eyes.’

‘Must be the contacts.’

Her dry response elicited more laughter.

‘Look, I’d really like to clear the air between us. I honestly didn’t mean anything by what you overheard. It was merely an observation from working on these tugs too long.’

She opened her mouth to respond and he held up a hand. ‘Yes, it was a sweeping generalisation. And, yes, I’m suitably chastened and I apologise. But tell me, Lana Walker, which are you?’

He leaned closer. So close she couldn’t breathe without imprinting his seductive scent on her receptors. ‘Husband-hunter or fun fling girl?’

She reared back, knowing now was the time to clam up as she usually did, before she scolded him like a tardy student. As she compressed her lips into an unimpressed line she noticed the teasing sparkle in his eyes, the cheeky smile playing about his mouth.

‘You’re trying to wind me up.’

‘Is it working?’

‘No.’

‘So I could say anything and you’d be totally immune to me?’

Immune? She could have a hospital’s worth of vaccinations against suave sailors and it still wouldn’t give her guaranteed immunity—the type of immunity she needed more and more urgently the longer he stared at her with those twinkling eyes.

‘That’s right.’

‘So I could say you intrigue me and you wouldn’t react?’

‘Nope.’

‘What about if I tell you I think there’s more to you than the obvious?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘That’s the same as intrigue, so you need to come up with a better line, sailor boy.’

‘Sailor boy?’

A slow grin spread across his face as she mentally slapped a hand over her mouth.

Nicknames implied camaraderie. Nicknames implied fun. And there was no way she’d be foolish enough to ever contemplate having fun with him.

‘Figure of speech.’ She pleated her napkin, folding it over and over with origami-like precision, till he reached over and stilled her hand, setting her pulse rocketing as she tried not to flinch from his touch.

‘What if I said I like you?’

Taking a great gulp of air to ease her constricted lungs, she frowned. ‘You’re still trying to wind me up. And you’re good. I’ll give you that much.’

She extracted her hand on the pretext of picking up her wine glass, racking her brain for an easy way to end this conversation before she blurted out exactly how wound up she was by his teasing. The nape of her neck prickled. A colony of ants had taken up residence under her skin, and her blood flowed thick and sluggish, heating her from the inside out. Logically, she knew it was merely a physiological response—a simple chemical reaction to the first male to enter her personal space in a long time. But logic wouldn’t untie her tongue or stop the rising blush from making her feel more gauche and awkward than ever in a social situation like this.

Smiling, he picked up his own wine glass and raised it in her direction.

‘You do intrigue me. And I’m not trying to wind you up.’ His smile widened. ‘Well, not much. For some inexplicable reason I’ve taken an instant liking to you, despite your somewhat prickly exterior, and I’ve got two weeks to prove it to you.’

Prickly? The cheeky son of a—

He chuckled, and she knew he was winding her up again, trying to get a reaction.

She bit her tongue, mulling over what he’d said. He’d taken an instant liking to her, huh? As if. If she believed that she’d believe the ship would sail into the horizon and drop off the end of a flat earth.

Leaning forward, he murmured in her ear. ‘Two very interesting weeks.’

She stiffened, unable to think when he was this close. What was the best response? Ignore him? Berate him? Wait the requisite ten minutes it would take to think up a scathing comeback and put him firmly back in his place?

‘What? Nothing to say? Surprising, from a woman with such strong opinions about me.’

Sitting back, he fixed her with a smug smile—a smile that said he knew how flustered he made her, how she was struggling to come up with a suitable response.

She should have ignored him, pleaded a headache and left the table. That would have been her usual course of action—quietly slinking away, ruing her shyness. But his self-satisfied smile was too much, goading her into matching wits with him.

He assumed she couldn’t come up with a quick answer? She’d show him.

So rather than pushing back her chair and making a run for it, she felt blood surge to her cheeks, and her head snapped up as she fixed him with a scathing glare.

‘Go ahead, then, sailor boy. Prove it.’